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“Your girlfriend is amazing.”
Girlfriend.
The word strikes him harder than it ought to.
John Reese hasn't had a girlfriend in a long time. There are people he has been involved with, some he’s cared about and some it still hurts to remember. Since Jessica, he's never really cared for labels.
He thinks about it now, tries to imagine Shaw the way he sometimes does Zoe. They're both beautiful and dangerous but the more he tries, the more unpleasant he feels.
John can think of Shaw like this: sitting next to him on a rooftop with a half-eaten burger in one hand and a loaded USP Compact in the other. He can think of her pulling glass shards out of her arm like it's Christmas morning. He can't think of a date with her that wouldn't end in gunfire.
Shaw is an important friend, a valued teammate, but she's not his particular brand of crazy.
They're too similar, he thinks, too sharp around the edges. He needs someone a little softer and she needs...
Well. He's not sure what she needs, but he knows what she's got.
John can remember clearly- that time at the diner, when they were all trying to stay off Samaritan's radar. It was still pretty early and the place was so fixed in the back-alleys of New York that they were the only real customers around. He's sure that was by design rather than coincidence; they needed to be out of sight, out of mind.
He had spent a lot of time on stakeouts with Shaw, alone together in the dark with Finch's voice buzzing in their ears. Root, on the other hand, he hadn't quite adjusted to. He was still trying to separate the nervous psychiatrist he'd rescued from the unstable woman who worshipped Finch’s Machine.
So as he sat there, watching them both from the opposite side of the table, he was a little caught off guard by the apparent dynamic.
He'd seen them talk before, but there was something about the not-talking that first got his attention. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, while Shaw cleared her plate and Root pushed pale-looking scrambled eggs around idly with a fork. The planning was finished, but Shaw had made it pretty clear she wasn't leaving until her stomach was full.
John ate his bagel in silence. It was stale and tasteless but it was something, and he figured they all needed the extra calories.
Eventually, Shaw dropped her knife and fork, rubbing at her mouth with the back of one hand, all the while looking unsatisfied. He raised an eyebrow at her and she glared back.
“Here.” Root's plate made a dull scraping noise as she pushed it across the table and lifted Shaw's out of the way. They both turned to look at her, but Root just rested her chin in her palm and smiled over at Shaw. “Eat fast. She says we’re running out of time.”
“Don’t expect a thank you.” Shaw managed, sounding suspicious. As she shoveled the eggs into her mouth, she looked back at Root like she was waiting for something else to happen. Despite himself, John started to feel like an unwelcome third party.
He found himself watching their enemy-turned-ally for a while, wondering if The Machine was still talking to her or if she really was just that interested in Shaw's eating process. Seconds ticked by and she still had her eyes on the other woman. For her part, Shaw didn't look at all concerned by her audience.
(He wasn't too surprised by that, having watched her devour slabs of meat off all kinds of unsanitary equipment.
Shaw was many things, but she wasn't modest.)
He finished the bagel and excused himself. Yeah, he sort of needed the bathroom, but mostly he was just uncomfortable watching this woman eye his partner up like she wanted to take a bite. John didn't consider himself a shy person – he'd knocked armed assailants unconscious in his underwear – but that just felt too much like playing third wheel to his sister.
The bathrooms were badly-lit but not life-threatening in terms of hygiene. He splashed cold water on his face under a blinking yellow light and checked his phone. Nothing from Finch yet. Briefly, he thought about getting a breakfast muffin to take back, but the thought seemed ridiculous given the situation. He wasn't too sure Finch would eat it anyway.
By the time John re-entered the dining area, a couple of minutes had passed and he had to blink a few times to get used to the stable lighting. He had a pretty good view of the table from where he stood, and what he saw made him blink a little harder.
Root had moved even further into the booth – if possible – and sat with one arm on the table and the other resting comfortably on the back of the seat. From the looks of it, Shaw wasn't pleased with the invasion of her space because she muttered something quietly and leaned away. Her fingers wrapped around the knife by her empty plate in a way that was clearly threatening.
But rather than backing off, Root just tilted her head slightly and said something in return. John could only see the back of her from where he was, but he saw Shaw well enough. Whatever Root had said to her, it was enough to make her let go of the knife. Instead, she turned bodily in her seat to face Root and looked almost amused.
John had seen that look before; it was the kind of half-smile she gave him when someone was about to get shot. It felt out of place there, in a backstreet diner with nothing on fire and no-one out to gun them down. He wondered what kind of future exploits Root had to offer to get that kind of reaction.
With Shaw calmed, he decided then would be a good time to return to the table and shuffle them through the front door. He was getting a little worried about Finch, and staying too long in one place wasn't good for their safety either.
He took a step closer. Root's hand left the table.
Another step. Root's thumb dragged slowly across Shaw's bottom lip, as if wiping away stray crumbs that were never there in the first place.
John was a little surprised by Root's audacity, but he quickened his pace when Shaw's hand snapped up to grab her wrist tightly. He knew something unpleasant was about to follow.
Shaw glanced down at Root's lips. Nobody got stabbed.
Shaw tugged at Root's arm and kissed her roughly on the mouth.
By then, John was centimeters from the table, and what followed was an awkward moment where they genuinely didn't notice him standing there. Root brought her free hand to Shaw's face, pressing her fingers under the other woman's chin to pull her closer.
Shaw let go of her wrist and Root breathed in sharply when Shaw’s hand slipped beneath her jacket. Her own hands slid to the back of Shaw’s neck, thumbs rubbing lightly at a spot just below her ears.
John wished he didn't need The Machine's guidance to avoid the street cameras, wished he could leave without making things any more awkward than they needed to be. But life doesn't always give you the choices that you want to make. So he cleared his throat and sat back down like he hadn't just watched their strange foreplay at work.
From the looks of it Root was quite happy to ignore his presence completely, but Shaw drew back and pulled Root's hands away from her. She looked John dead in the eye as if daring him to say something.
He smirked then, and even now he feels it pinching at the corners of his mouth. He looks over at Shaw, decides he can't possibly express to Walter how far from the truth he really is.
“Sameen? Not my girlfriend.”